And lo, I did descend into the labyrinth beneath the great arena, where stone corridors stretched like the veins of some gigantic beast, pulsing with the murmurs of those who seek violence. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and rusted iron, the echoes of distant screams whispering through the chambers like the wails of forgotten souls. Torches burned low, casting shadows that slithered like vipers along the walls.

  For a span of thirty minutes, or perhaps longer—for time in such a place is a fickle specter—I wandered through this warren of chambers, tunnels, and cages wrought from blackened iron. Here and there, chains clattered against stone as unseen figures shifted in the gloom. My path led me to a chamber most strange, where machines of peculiar craftsmanship stood in silent vigil. Some I recognized—pulleys and windlasses, their ropes worn from the strain of lifting burdens unknown. Others bore forms unfamiliar, their purposes hidden in the silence of centuries.

  As I traced my fingers along the cold iron of one such contraption, I felt it again—that gaze, unseen yet ever-watchful, prickling at the nape of my neck. Should I feign ignorance or call forth the specter in the shadows? I chose the former.

  Before me stood a strong, hinged platform, its surface marred with old bloodstains that had seeped deep into the grain of the wood. What grim purpose did it serve? A voice, rich with knowing, answered before I could voice my wonder.

  "That is called a Hegmata. It serves to hoist great beasts."

  I turned, my heart steady, and beheld the woman from before. Her smirk was one of amusement, yet her eyes gleamed with a keenness.

  "So, it was you," I murmured.

  "You lack ambition," she said, stepping forward, "yet you act when others hesitate. That intrigues me. And so, I shall aid you."

  I did not question her. I merely followed.

  As we moved through the winding passages, my mind wandered to the condemned souls I would soon join. What manner of crimes had they committed? Were their sins blacker than those of Barrett? My lips curled into a bitter smile. "Strange it is that I now don the guise of a criminal," I mused, "but if blood must be shed, then so be it."

  The woman beside me cast me a sidelong glance, curiosity flickering in her gaze. "Ah, so even you recoil at wearing the skin of the condemned? You too hesitate at standing among those who dared defy the king, huh?" Her tone was amused.

  We arrived at the chamber of the forsaken, a den of shadows where men and women clad in rags and iron stared through hollow eyes. "Why do you help me?" I asked, my voice hushed in the oppressive gloom.

  She smiled, slow and knowing. "I wish to witness the way you fight."

  She gestured to a secluded alcove, where a set of battle garments lay folded with eerie precision. I dressed in silence, securing the padded tunic to my frame, fastening the leather guards about my arms, and donning the helmet that smelled of sweat and old steel to cover my hair. The sword, resting upon a low table, lay waiting. I lifted it, surprised by its balance—it was neither cumbersome nor light, but something in between, an extension of the will rather than a mere tool.

  She studied me for a moment, then spoke. "When your time comes, a guard will fetch you." And with that, she vanished into the darkness, leaving me alone. She never told me her name.

  I sat upon the cold stone, my muscles aching, my breath steadying. I rested my body for the upcoming battle. The condemned around me bore the expressions of men not seeking justice, but thrones of their own. They had not rebelled out of righteousness but out of greed. Yet here I was, one among them.

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  An hour passed before a guard, clad in the king’s colors, seized me by the arm and led me forth. The air beyond was different—thick with dust, laced with the scent of sweat and blood. The murmur of the crowd was a living thing, pulsing with anticipation. "You shall enter in ten minutes," the guard grunted. I exhaled, long and slow. There was no turning back.

  Then, the gates yawned open, and I stepped into the ring.

  The sun blazed like an unblinking eye, casting jagged shadows over the bloodstained sand. The roar of the crowd was a living thing, writhing with hunger, anticipation. I could feel their eyes on me, their expectations pressing down like a great weight.

  And before me stood a warrior built like a fortress—towering, thick with muscle, a blade as broad as my arm clutched in his scarred hands. He carried himself with the ease of a man who had survived a hundred battles. He had no doubts. No hesitation. Only the certainty of my death.

  Doubt slithered into my mind.

  And yet, as I tightened my grip upon the hilt of my sword, I reminded myself—nothing, nothing, was crueler than Barrett.

  With a roar, he moved first

  The ground trembled beneath his charge, his blade screaming through the air. I barely raised my sword in time—the impact sent a shockwave through my arms, rattling my bones. He struck again. And again. Each blow came like the swing of a hammer, driving me back, forcing me to scramble for footing. I was grateful for my ability to parry, yet I saw no opening to strike. The battle wore on.

  He was stronger. If I blocked every strike, I’d crumble. If I let him control the pace, I’d die.

  So I moved.

  I sidestepped the next swing, the wind of it kissing my cheek, and slashed at his exposed ribs. Fast. Precise. But he turned just in time—my blade met iron instead of flesh. The force sent a jolt through my wrist. Pain flared as steel kissed my side, hot and sudden. I staggered, gritting my teeth as the warmth of blood soaked into my tunic. The next strike came faster—I barely turned in time, my forearm screaming in protest as I caught the edge of his blade against my leather guard. If I slowed down, even for a breath, I was dead.

  I needed to think. I needed to—

  Pain exploded. Warmth spread. He didn't pause. He brought his blade down again—I barely managed to roll away, sand kicking up as I twisted back onto my feet.

  The crowd roared.

  He scoffed.

  I gritted my teeth, pressing a hand to my side. Blood slicked my fingers.

  I had no time to entertain thoughts.

  I exhaled.

  His next swing came heavy, overconfident. I dodged—not away, but forward, ducking under his guard. My elbow shot out, cracking against his ribs. He let out a sharp grunt, stumbling back. A brief opening—barely a breath of time. But enough.

  With all the strength left in me, I shoved against his blade, forcing him back. In that moment, I made my choice. I cast aside my sword, letting it clatter upon the bloodstained earth. The hush that fell over the arena was deafening.

  Confusion flickered across his face. His grip on his weapon tightened. He charged.

  I moved.

  At the last moment, I twisted aside, his blade slicing through empty air. Before he could recover, my fist drove into his gut. Hard.

  A strangled gasp tore from his throat. His knees buckled. His sword slipped from his grasp.

  The crowd erupted.

  I didn’t hesitate. I retrieved my fallen blade and pressed the cold steel against his throat. He froze. Our eyes met—his wide with astonishment, mine steady.

  "Honored warrior," I spoke, breathless. "Do you yield?"

  The weight of the arena hung heavy in the silence. For a moment, he hesitated.

  Then, at last—he nodded.

  Thunderous applause. Shouts of disbelief. The taste of iron in my mouth. The sting of sweat in my wounds. And deep in my bones—satisfaction.

  Food. Shelter. A place to rest where the walls don’t reek of blood. That was all I needed. And for that, I have won.